


We Were In Screaming Colour

by rockgodstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fairy!Louis, Fluff, Human!Harry, Kinda, M/M, tbh this was just an excuse to write fairy louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockgodstyles/pseuds/rockgodstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course Harry Styles would endanger himself before anything else. Louis feels a sour pang of guilt in his stomach, because if he had been paying closer attention to his boy, then he could’ve prevented it. Stopped the doe from running out into the road, made the wind blow a little bit harder so Harry’s bike would’ve gone slower. Stupid flowers, stupid starlight. </p><p>Stupid Louis. </p><p>-</p><p>or, the fic where Harry gets hurt, and Fairy!Louis saves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were In Screaming Colour

**Author's Note:**

> So this was born out of a prompt from my one of my tumblr networks - thetomlinsluts: "WRITE FAIRY!LOUIS" 
> 
> And thus, this was born. 
> 
> I own none of the One Direction boys, nor anyone or anything associated with them. Everything written here is completely fictional, at least in this universe. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets hurt. Louis hurts.

Louis doesn’t see exactly how it all happens, because honestly, sometimes he gets distracted by the way the sparkling light of the stars tend to catch on the thin petals of the flowers that dot the vast, idyllic landscape of the England countryside, especially on a night like tonight, where the stars seem to shine just a little bit brighter. It reminds him of a certain pair of wide, emerald eyes, because both posses the same almost-glittery quality that never fails to captivate him, to render him slightly infatuated with just how pretty they look.  

So you can’t blame Louis, really. 

By the time his delicately pointed ears have picked up the distressed moan of the doe, it’s already too late. A loud, piercing squeal cuts through the previously tranquil night air, and it’s immediately followed by a horrible grating sound and an almost inaudible  _crack_  that leaves Louis’ heart in his throat. He briefly registers the panicked noise of the deer’s hooves indenting the soft forest floor, but he’s too busy flitting over to his boy, his eyes already scanning over the desolate road for a sign of him, wings flapping hard to get him there faster. 

Louis darts through a thick clump of trees, the alarmed orange tint of his wings illuminating his way, and he finally gets a clear view of his poor boy, body limp on the empty road like a broken marionette.

Oh  _no_. 

Louis feels a noise of distress tear out of his throat and he drops nimbly onto the road, running the rest of the way to his boy and ignoring the sting of the motorway on his bare feet. The boy’s laying on his front, his right leg twisted at an angle that makes Louis’ stomach squirm. His motorcycle lies a few meters away from him, its front wheel bent. 

 _He must have tried to avoid the doe_ , Louis thinks and shakes his head briefly, because  _of course_  Harry Styles would endanger himself before anything else. Louis feels a sour pang of guilt in his stomach, because if he had been paying closer attention to his boy, then he could’ve prevented it. Stopped the doe from running out into the road, made the wind blow a little bit harder so Harry’s bike would’ve gone slower. Stupid flowers, stupid starlight. 

Stupid Louis. 

 _Darling_ , he thinks as his small hands carefully reach out to smooth Harry’s curls away from his scratched forehead.  _I’m so sorry._

Louis moves his hands away from Harry’s forehead, and slides them down to gently rest on his back. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to gauge the extent of Harry’s injuries. He feels the familiar coolness of his magic spread from his palms to his precious boy’s still limp body, and frowns at what he receives from it.  

Harry’s hurt. And it’s not something Louis can fix with a snap of his fingers, or a flap of his wings. 

The light from his wings illuminating Harry’s limp form changes to a deeper, darker orange, almost a red, as Louis feels nausea rise up in his throat, the mere thought of losing his boy too much. Louis wants to fix Harry  _now_ , wants him to be okay and glowing in his own special non-magical way, not cold and unresponsive like he is now, like a shattered figurine. 

He carefully turns the still-unconscious boy onto his front, using a small zap of magic to get his lanky, heavy body afloat, and Louis’ eyes scan over his figure quickly, cataloging all visible injuries. Besides the obviously broken leg and scratched skin, Harry has an ugly river of blood steadily streaming down his arm from a horrific gash that makes Louis think he might throw up. 

Carefully, he places his hand over the main part of the wound, wings shuddering in distress as Harry lets out a moan of pain, eyelids fluttering. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Louis whispers, a clear, sweet tear rolling down his cheek as he feels a cocktail of remorse and pain and sadness settle in his gut. 

He focuses on mending the torn skin back together, on drawing out any dirt or gravel lodged within the gash. There’s a soft blue glow at the point where their skin meets, and Louis fixes his gaze on that, determined to make Harry better. Finally, the blue fades and when Louis draws his hand away, the skin there is pale and unmarked, as it should be. 

He feels a few more tears drip down his cheeks as he surveys his boy once more, unable to stop them escaping as he sees how battered Harry is. His fault. All his fault. 

Gently, Louis moves his hand over the milky-white skin that had been disfigured by the ugly scratches, taking away their mark on his beautiful boy. He taps Harry’s upper lip once, quickly administering something that would hopefully reduce any pain his boy was experiencing, silently thanking Mary for forcing him to practise his healing skills, instead of fooling around with Stan. 

Louis quickly moves Harry’s broken bike off the road, wings flapping hard as he drags the hunk of metal to a group of bushes. He then returns to his boy, still unconscious, still floating in midair, and he gently places both arms below Harry’s body, scooping up his feather-light body to cradle him against his chest. 

 _Thank god for floating charms_ , Louis thinks, as he starts out towards home,  _or else I would never have been able to carry him._

- 

“Liam!” Louis yells, almost as soon as he reaches the empty infirmary, wings straining from how fast and hard he had been flying. Harry hadn’t awakened once during the trip, and that worried Louis more than anything. He isn’t sure if it’s normal for humans to remain unconscious this long after an accident, and he doesn’t want to consider what it means if it isn’t. 

Harry is still cradled against Louis’ chest, head lying heavily on his shoulder, and Louis needs Liam, who is the best healer Louis knows, to evaluate Harry _now_ , before anything really bad could happen. He brings Harry over to an empty cot with two strong beats of his deceptively delicate wings, slowly lowering his limp form onto the soft silk. 

“Liam!” He shouts again when no one appears, voice breaking at how desperate he is. He’s halfway towards the healers’ office when a slightly panicked Liam bursts out of it, broad wings a shade of almost-neon orange as he takes in Louis’ alarmed state. 

“What’s wrong? Why are you yelling?” He asks, thick eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead, and Louis darts forward impatiently, wrapping his fingers around Liam’s wrist and dragging him behind him and towards Harry. He shoves Liam’s form towards the injured boy, who was now twitching and moaning in pain, the sight twisting Louis’ heart in his chest. His beautiful boy. 

“A human?” Liam says, his wings shifting to the shocked colour of pale white. He turns to Louis, bark-coloured eyes wide, and asks bewilderedly, “Where did you find him?”

“He was on his motorcycle and swerved to avoid a deer.” Louis’ voice is higher and breathier than normal, and his wings are still the unusually dark orange colour. He digs his fingers hard into Liam’s arm. “Li, please. Fix him. Please.” 

Liam gives him one long appraising look, before twitching his wings once and focusing his attention onto Harry, his hands starting to glow soft blue as he works his magic on Harry. 

Louis can only watch as Liam heals Harry, part by part. The broken rib, the slight concussion, the broken leg, the bruised side. His mind can’t help but be about nothing  _but_  HarryHarryHarry, Harry’s bright laugh, his gentle touches, his eyes that held the universe within them, his kindness, his long soft curls, and. 

Louis can’t lose Harry. He can’t lose the boy he’s been infatuated with since the day he spotted him by his favourite lake, floating lazily in the water in his ridiculous yellow trunks as he sang some song Louis has never heard of, voice raspy and deep and  _delicious._  Louis couldn’t get his mind off him, hasn’t been able to, even now, and couldn’t and doesn’t understand why, but he’s taken to finding Harry in his free time, when he doesn’t have to help out around The Tree, or work on his various skills. He likes to just admire what Harry’s like, what he does, what he likes.

Louis might be a little (or a lot) in love with this human boy. 

He’s never talked to him, or properly  _met him_ , met him, but Louis always feels an intense, almost magnetic, pull towards the human boy, something that always made his wings turn a bright, neon blue (a colour he hadn’t yet had an emotion for) and it was impossible for Louis to even try to not think about Harry, and believe him, he’s tried.

Louis thinks Harry may have spotted him once or twice before, when he wasn’t quick enough when ducking behind a tree trunk, but they have yet to have an encounter. Louis really,  _really_  wants to meet him, wants to talk to him, wants to know him inside out and every way possible, but he’s been afraid. Afraid that Harry might be afraid of  _him_ , or think that he was strange or that he just might not  _like_  him. 

Louis is jolted out of the maze that is his thoughts when Liam finally pulls away from Harry, broad wings flapping and shuddering a few times as Liam stretches. They had faded to a pale, mint green, Liam’s usual wing colour when he’s not experiencing strong emotions, and were now beating softly, keeping Liam a few inches off the ground. Louis meets Liam’s eyes, silently asking for a verdict, and Liam gives him a comforting, if tired, smile. 

"He’ll be alright. I fixed up all his major injuries. All he needs now is some rest." 

Louis feels the tight ball of worry in his gut unclench, and he’s throwing himself at Liam, arms wrapping tightly around his best friend’s neck, wings now shining a bright, electric-blue light over everything. 

"Thank you thank you thank you." He babbles, squeezing Liam tight and giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. He gives Liam’s wings a grateful, gentle stroke, and Liam only smiles wider, the crinkles by his eyes making an appearance. 

"No problem, Lou." He says, softly, and Louis can see his glow dimming then brightening slightly, the fairies’ version of a yawn. He gives Liam another stroke of his wings, and another appreciative smile. 

"Thank you, Li. Really." He says, then adds, "You should get some rest." 

"It’s no problem." Liam says again, his glow fluctuating even more as his eyelids droop. "You owe me an explanation tomorrow though, Tomlinson." 

"Promise." Louis says, crossing the top tips of his wings briefly in an imitation of the fairy scout oath, "Now go to bed. I’ll see you and Zayn tomorrow. Thank you." 

"Love you." Liam replies sleepily, before he’s flying out of the infirmary, and towards his and Zayn’s home. 

Louis watches him go, making sure he’s safe, before turning back to Harry. To his beautiful boy, who’s going to be okay.

His brow is now smoothed out, and he’s breathing normally, chest rising and falling at regular intervals. Louis can’t help it; he reaches out and runs a hand through Harry’s soft curls, pushing them off his forehead. 

Harry really is stunning. His long eyelashes draw fine shadows on his pale, defined cheekbones, his chestnut coloured hair effortlessly framing his heart-shaped face, and his lips are full and pink and so _nicely shaped_ , and he drives Louis absolutely crazy. He wants to touch, to feel, to  _taste_  Harry so badly, wants to hear what Harry sounds like when he’s pliant and loose, when he’s desperate and panting, when he’s sleepy and cuddly. 

Louis wants it all. Good God, he wants it all. 

He’s so busy fantasising about Harry that he doesn’t quite sense the boy’s rise to consciousness, not until those eyelids are fluttering open, and his eyes are meeting an emerald pair that hold the universe within them. 


End file.
